Dinner
by Hc-Svnt-Dracones
Summary: The main six's musings on dinner. ONESHOT


Chase had been on call all day in the ICU. That meant keeping up stamina, which meant a lot of snacks. And that meant that he wasn't even close to hungry when he got home at eleven at night. He made himself some tea, and after downing all its boiling, scalding comfort in about two gulps he collapsed onto the bed. No need to explain himself, no need to do anything but refuel so that he'd be ready for work the next day at seven o'clock. He almost laughed as he pushed the covers down. And he called _this_ home.

* * *

Cameron was sick of eating microwave dinners, alone. She was tired of remembering what human contact had been like. Asking someone how their day had gone, talking and laughing. She was tired of getting home later than she had ever stayed out partying in college, shoving a Lean Cuisine in the microwave and eating in silence, sometimes not even bothering to turn on the light. She scraped the remains of tonight's meal into the trash. She wasn't hungry anymore. She needed a drink. And so, for a change of pace, Allison Cameron spent the rest of her evening on the sofa, with a glass of wine and the TV. There were at least other human voices, if not company.

* * *

Eric Foreman grinned at his reflection in the men's room mirror. It was nights like tonight that made him seem so arrogant. Around women, it seemed, Foreman could do no wrong. The woman sitting at his table was sipping her drink, lips pulled together into a glossy pout around the straw. She smiled at him as he took his seat. They picked up their conversation with minimal fumbling and when she started shooting him looks that were far from ambiguous, he asked for the bill. For Foreman, dinner was more about dessert than the meal in front of him.

* * *

House's fingers flitted gracefully above the overstuffed manila folder. He grabbed the first take out menu on the pile. Udupi Village. Indian food sounded okay. He flipped open the menu and remembered this place: it was vegetarian. Hardly his taste. This menu, if he recalled, was a contribution from Stacy. His eyes fell to a curry dish. No, Indian wouldn't do. No pity-party for one, not tonight. He flipped through the rest of his menus. He wondered why he had four from Vinnie's when he rarely ordered pizza. He couldn't help but notice that he had three from Shiki Wok when his favorite Chinese place was East West. His eyes darted back to Udupi Village. He almost wanted to order vindaloo curry and look through old photo albums and be depressed. He shoved the menu to the bottom of the pile and pulled out the first other one he found. Taqueria. Perfect. Vicodin, scotch and a fish taco could fix anything that ailed him.

* * *

James Wilson had a reputation. His food had a reputation. It was always bizarre, fancy, and delicious. These days, his food had to be just complex enough to distract him. And savory enough to shove in House's face. So he made eggplant parmesan, chicken mole, stuffed peppers. He made up soup recipes as he went along, he made bread from scratch, and he spent hours in the supermarket wondering what would be a big enough challenge. He knew, when he started to see bald-headed dying kids in every spoonful of French onion soup, that a meal had become to easy for him to prepare and that it wasn't extraordinary enough in flavor. He would then move on, or if it was a dish he particularly enjoyed he would make it more complex, adding spices and meats and insisting on boiling the water without a top on it. That way, the attention it required forced meal times to be the one time of the day he wouldn't let himself fret over dying people.

* * *

"Dr. Cuddy?" it was a timid, young, male voice cautiously peering in through her office door. He had a sandwich. She looked up from the fury of flying paperwork that had become her desk. "It's just that…it's almost nine and you haven't even left the desk in over two hours. I figured you'd need some dinner." He came in, her newest assistant, a nervous and high-strung kid named Brian. He dumped the sandwich onto her desk, getting Thousand Island dressing on discharge forms. He gave her a diet coke as well, and fluttered away. Cuddy looked contemptuously at the meal in front of her. She was far too busy to take a break. And besides, she wasn't even hungr—her growling stomach cut her off. She rolled her eyes and pulled the soda and sandwich closer. She took a huge bite and a chug of soda. She took another bite and blinked. She chewed slowly and allowed herself a giggle. The kid had gotten her a Reuben. 

believe me, if these were my characters, the word 'tritter' would mean a small, squishy insect usually found on the bottom of one's shoe, not a detective.


End file.
